


Waiting

by pocketmouse



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-30
Updated: 2010-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketmouse/pseuds/pocketmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waiting's easier when you have a goal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> OMG you don't know how hard it was not to throw in a billion references to T.S. Eliot's The Hollow Men. I mean, seriously.
> 
> And of course, MAJOR SPOILERS for The Pandorica Opens, and The Big Bang.

To say that Rory didn't really remember the first six months of standing guard would be a lie. He remembered every second of those 1,894 years. All sixty billion of them, give or take. But those first six months, he spent all alone, in the dark once the torches went out, waiting and half hoping for another miracle, even though he didn't deserve one. His mind grew accustomed to interpreting the heat readings his plastic eyes provided him with, and he listened to spiders and mice crawl through the earth, over the grass above, and he thought about the future he'd thought was a dream, and whispered poetry to Amy, locked in a box where she couldn't hear.

It took him a few minutes — much longer than it should — to recognize the drumming sound filtering through the dusty earth to his ears as hoofbeats. Just one, a steady cadence, and two heartbeats, a sound he hadn't heard in longer than he cared to calculate.

He didn't light the torch, he had more of an advantage this way, even if he had no idea if whoever this newcomer was would find him, or what to do if he was found. But it didn't matter, slow cautious steps growing closer, torchlight creeping into the stillness of the room. Tomb. Mausoleum.

"Who goes there?" Rory called out, taking the advantage while he could. He was surprised that his voice wasn't rusted and dried from disuse. As if six months in the dark with no food or water hadn't been proof enough that he wasn't human. He stepped forward into the light.

The Roman scout snapped to attention. "Legatus! We had thought everyone had perished! When no word came back to Rome —"

Rory brushed it aside impatiently, some of his training coming back to him, real or no. "It's just me. The others perished. But I couldn't leave the Pandorica."

"Is that —?" the scout gestured to the box. "What does it —?"

"You couldn't begin to understand," he said dismissively, and the scout stiffened. He looked at the scout again. "What was your name?"

"Petrus, sir."

"Petrus. Do you believe in miracles?"

"I believe in the gods, sir. Is this a test?"

Rory pointed back at the Pandorica. "_This_ is a test. This is my test. This is my miracle, and I refuse to let gods, or emperors, or the universe itself stop me. Report back to Caesar as you please. I and this box are all that are left, and I won't leave the Pandorica unguarded."

It was another four months before the scout comes back again, and with friends, but Rory didn't give a damn. Rome had more important things to do than worry over a single soldier and a box under a plain in Britain.

At least, Emperor Trajan did. Hadrian, Rory thought, sitting next to the Pandorica in the open caravan, watching the dust rise from the wheels of the carts, was an interfering ponce. They were all still a superstitious lot, though, and 20th century knowledge and augmented hearing and eyesight was still good for something. A little magic and a few remembered history lessons and he had them all convinced he was a messenger of the gods themselves.

Fez-wearing, mop-weilding, bowlegged gods if anything, but he didn't want to say that anywhere where it might get written down.

* * *

It's easier to be a legend from a distance, and it's easier on his heart as well, if not his conscience. He learns how to pick his battles, and he learns how to drop hints. Organized religion is his friend, megalomaniacs less so. He stays indoors in the summer, and goes looking for opportunities to tell stories when he can be bothered to look at the calendar and remember who might be alive.

A plastic brain doesn't let any information go, it seems.

He waits for the day when he'll go mad with the tedium of it all, the steady tick of the clock, but there's always something to do, to figure out, to watch out for. He begins to think maybe the Doctor was wrong, remembers with aching fondness the way Amy always teased the Doctor about his impatience with linearity.

Nine hundred years and not even a visit?

Hopefully it's just that the Doctor has more important things to do, like fixing all of this.

Once the legend of the Pandorica takes hold on its own, he really has less work to do. Holy artifact or historical curiosity, there's less worry about someone trying to smash it or blow it up. Of course, he's still got to worry about idiots trying to open it, and he regrets having let it slip that it was a box and not a solid block.

He starts showing up only when the Pope is alone, and never speaking, because it's entertaining. History's already a little messed up, so he can't really find it in him to care. So long as Amy's still there.

* * *

It wasn't that he stopped paying _attention_ to the outside world. Not really. But he'd never been so glad for science in his — at this point, overly long — life, because he hasn't wanted to go outside in literal decades, for fear of doing or saying something he shouldn't.

So he wasn't really expecting the Blitz when it happened. Professor Graham would kill him for this, if he was even technically born yet. Would be born. Rory dodged another chunk of burning building. The flames were starting to really get a grip on the larger timbers, and the ceiling wouldn't last much longer. And neither would he.

"I'm not letting it end like this," he said. "Not now. Come on, Amy."

The warehouse was full of valuable items the British government wanted to keep safe from the hands of the invading Germans, and all of it was stored on pallets for ease of shifting. Even like that, though, Rory didn't know if he could move the Pandorica on his own. He found a block and tackle under a canvas in the staging room, and climbed awkwardly through the rafters, looking for a point to secure it to. The smoke was thick and heavy, and with the fires dotting the building, his thermal imaging wasn't much better.

There was a furious crash that rocked the whole building, pitching Rory forward. A timber slashed through his shoulder, and a dim, long-ago part of him said that was where his lung ought to be, and started naming blood vessels. But he didn't have blood vessels any more, and he started pulling on his system of pulley relays. Slowly the massive stone slab moved forward.

Shouts filtered through the air, but Rory ignored them. He had to get Amy out, before the timbers gave way, or the ropes burned through, or he melted where he stood. Footsteps clattered, and he didn't care if they were British or German so long as Amy was _safe_.

"What the blazes is _that?!_"

"Never mind that, get the crates out! Sands, you go upstairs! Peters, with me!"

The soldiers rushed past him, and Rory ignored them. _Out. Out. Out. _There was another crash as something important collapsed, and the pulley system was gone, leaving Rory to work on momentum alone.

He almost didn't notice when he made it out himself. So much of London was burning that it took him a while to notice the difference; he'd been just putting one foot in front of the other. It wasn't even the change in surroundings that made him stop. It was the voice out of nowhere.

"Wow, kid, you should find whoever sold you your Earth history disc and get your money back."

Rory stopped, and turned around slowly. There was a man standing on the sidewalk, leaning calmly against the wall, a shit-eating grin on his face. "I really don't think so," he said.

The man stepped forward. "Now, my scanner says you're not from around here. And neither is that." He nodded at the box. "Of course, I know my Earth history — better than most — so I know what it is. And it's not safe to leave something like this lying around, so if you don't mind —"

Rory stepped into his path. "I think I do, actually." He wished he still had his sword. He raised his hand instead. He hated the thing, but he had no choice. "The Pandorica is mine to protect, and there's nothing on this world that'll stop me."

The other man grinned, teeth bright and sharp. "And what about something not on this world?"

"Sorry, you're two thousand years too late for that line to work." The air raid siren sounded in the distance and Rory shot the man before he could change his mind about it.

He stood still for a moment, gathering his wits and trying to assess the situation. He was out on the streets of London, in the warehouse district. No cover, and bombs falling from the sky. He wondered if it would even be possible to call Churchill — surely the direct line Amy had told him about wouldn't work if there wasn't a TARDIS around for it to connect to.

Then there was a gasp from behind him, and a heartbeat where there hadn't been one a minute ago.

A gun cocked, loud in its proximity. "Kid, that was really a mistake."

Rory turned around. The man was awake — _alive_ — again, and really, how did some people have all the luck? Rory ignored the gun pointed at his chest. They both knew it was practically useless. "Well, unless you want me to make that mistake again, I suggest you get the hell out of here."

"Oh, not a chance. See, now you've just got me more interested. You and that box — neither of you should be here. You're an anomaly, in a world that doesn't know what the word means. And I'm pretty sure that box is the key to fixing this whole mess. So step aside."

"No."

"All right, kid, you asked for it." In a flash, the gun was away, and the guy was going for his — wrist?

Rory paused, his own weapon already aimed. "That's a vortex manipulator."

"It sure is, kid, and it can freeze you in place and open that little box of yours, so you'd better start doing what I say if you want to keep all your circuits functioning."

"No, that's the _same_ vortex manipulator. Where did you get that?"

"It's mine. Single owner, kinda a lot of mileage, pretty beat up. Factory issue, they all look the same, kid."

"I can see to the sub-microscopic level," Rory shouted, losing his patience. "I _know_ that's the Doctor's vortex manipulator. And stop calling me kid, I'm two thousand years old."

* * *

The man's name was Jack Harkness, and he knew the Doctor. Or, well, someone else who might still be the Doctor. Rory still had fifty years to kill, so he knew this couldn't be much more than the kind of stupid, ridiculous luck the Doctor dragged along with him. But Jack also knew how to fix microcircuitry, so after a quick call to someone higher up the chain of command to come for Amy, Jack took a moment to look at his chest, timber still embedded where his ribs should be.

"I know chicks dig scars, but this might be taking it a little far," Jack said jokingly. One hand pressed carefully along Rory's plastic skin, testing sensation as he threaded together new pathways.

There were rope fibers embedded in the palm of his hand. "Doesn't really matter," he said. He wondered briefly what Amy would think of it. What she would think of plastic Rory. After all this, fifty years seemed so close.

"Just wait." Jack tugged the last seam shut, and it was a jagged patch job, army green in a couple spots where Jack couldn't get the synthetic Nestene plastic to cover the gap without stretching too thin. A temporary graft, courtesy of the British Armed Forces. Rory tugged the cloak over his shoulders, but that was about all he could do. The plastic Roman armor had served him well, but it'd worn itself out, used for longer than it was ever meant to, and there was so little left of the torso that it was hardly worth replacing.

Jack handed him a standard issue military jacket. "Maybe you should think about disappearing for a while, Rory. The vault I'm having the Pandorica moved to is indestructible, it'll be safe there. And the Doctor was right, radio waves and satellite signals are going to be just the beginning of your trouble. What're you going to once the 21st century hits? You really want to get a fistful of the internet slamming into your carefully calibrated cerebellum?"

Rory shook his head. "I shouldn't need to wait that long. Amy's born in 1989, I should be fine. Coupla years leeway if I need it."

Jack's face was grim. "You gotta think about alternatives, Rory. How much scratch have you saved up, being a mysterious figure guarding a box?"

"Don't sleep, don't eat. Don't need much. What do you mean, alternatives?"

Jack patted at the front of Rory's jacket, reminding him for a moment of the Doctor. "You're not the only one he's kept waiting. The Doctor doesn't always come back for the people he leaves behind."

Rory took Jack's hand and pulled it away, setting it down at his side. "You must not know the Doctor very well then, must you? He made a promise." If not to Rory, then at least to Amy.

Jack just looked sad, and didn't argue. He gave Rory a number to call if he decided he needed a hand after all, but it'd been nearly two thousand years, Rory had the hang of this by now.

* * *

Laying low turns out to be his only choice, though. Without the Centurion's outfit — and even barring that, considering he's made himself a shadowy legend of history — he can't get close to the Pandorica again. A couple times over the next couple of years he manages a glimpse of it, knows it's still safe, but it's all he can do to keep himself on his feet and not end up getting shipped out to the front. So he keeps his head down.

The war ends, and it's possible he goes a little mental. He gets a history degree, and sets about 'reinterpreting' his own damn legends. He thinks briefly about doing something about the history of stars again, but that one seems to have taken on a life of its own, and he doesn't have time to look in on both. Someone else will have to look after the stars. Amy's still waiting for him.

He writes a book. He writes two books. He gets close to the Pandorica again, as a scholar studying artifacts, with an impeccable knack for writing about the Roman period. He traces over the patterns on its surface, remembering and wishing for that brilliant green glow. "You know, it's written that the Centurion forbade human hands from ever touching the Pandorica." His hands skim millimeters from the box.

Professor Williamson disappears into obscurity and unaging plastic Rory watches the 1970's roll by and spends most of it listening to the Beatles whether he likes it or not, so he gets a job at a bank, where he can hide in the blessed silence of the vault.

Isn't life funny sometimes.

Time slows to a crawl.

Small town newspapers don't get imported to London, even if you ask nicely, so Rory takes the day off — he'll never forget the date now — and goes up to Leadworth. The birth registry has recorded the name, and he can't stop himself from peeking into the hospital nursery and breathing a sigh of relief.

He thinks he catches a flash of brown tweed, but really, it's 1989 and it could be anyone.

He quits his job at the bank and goes to work for a competing security firm at the National Museum. In six years, he never takes a single day of sick leave or vacation. He only takes days off when he has to.

It's a lazy Monday afternoon, a bank holiday, when he hears a familiar high-pitched warble. But it's not the Doctor. Instead, it's an unfamiliar woman in form-fitting black, blonde curls tucked up in a tight bun.

"You realize that's a genuine Egyptian parchment you're defacing." He flicks his torch on as the woman spins around.

"I thought you worked night shift," the woman says before clamping her lips shut. It's the woman who was with the Doctor — River? Was that her name? She looks younger, though, and Rory is suddenly afraid of what it might mean if he can't trust his memory.

"I thought you'd be better at this," he says. At least it's better than 'what are you doing here?' or 'where's the Doctor?' That question never went well.

"I'm told I'll get better," River replies, and now he is sure it's her, that self-assured tone. He wonders if whatever tricks she'd used on the guards back when he'd first met her would work on him now that he knew he was plastic.

"You really shouldn't be here," he says. "You want to tell me what you're up to?"

"Just leaving a friend of mine a note," she says mildly.

"On a priceless Egyptian artifact?"

"Maybe he'll read it that way."

"You'd have better luck if the universe wasn't ending."

River blinks. "I thought I fixed that already."

"Wait, am I from your future or your past?" Rory frowns. Two thousand years and he still doesn't have the hang of it.

River punches something up on her handheld computer. "Bugger. I'm in the wrong timestream." She looks back at Rory. "I bet he did this on purpose. He's probably still mad at me for the incident in Mesopotamia. Sorry about that, darling." She throws him a kiss, and before he can blink, disappears in a flash of light.

Rory switches to night shift the next day.


End file.
